


Special

by mataglap



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-28 18:13:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14454957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mataglap/pseuds/mataglap
Summary: A loner meets another loner. They stop being lonely. There's fluff.





	Special

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bloomingcnidarians](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloomingcnidarians/gifts).



Genji wants him to socialize, so Hanzo honestly tries his best — which, considering he's got his brother's blood on his hands and everyone knows it, doesn't amount to much in the end.

Nobody shows him any outright hostility, but the old guard treats him with cool politeness that speaks of mistrust louder than any words. The only ones that talk to him outside the necessary team communications and greetings exchanged in passing are D.Va and Lúcio, but they are both from a different world and a different generation, too loud, too careless, and he doesn't _avoid_ them as such, but their interests don't overlap enough for there to be opportunities for social interaction apart from work and an occasional meal.

He's obviously not invited to any of the little social gatherings held at the Watchpoint, few of them as there is.

He's long been used to loneliness at this point, so it doesn't bother him much. He doesn't mind being thought of as a villain, either, because all things considered, he _is_ one. The boredom, though: that gets to him. There isn't much to do at the Watchpoint. It's first and foremost a research facility, and there isn't really any recreation to be had other than a holovision set in the small living room. There is no shooting range either, not even training equipment of any sort, and while everyone agrees that the Watchpoint needs to be converted into a passable approximation of an HQ, things like gym equipment rank fairly low on the list.

So Hanzo improvises. He sets up a makeshift archery range on the old shuttle launchpad, near the cliffs, far enough from the main building complex that there is no risk of anyone wandering into a stray shot. He drags two low benches out of one of the unused, dusty rooms and buys a pull-up bar to fix inside a tall doorframe. He exercises with what he has: his own body and the environment around him. He practices katas, challenges himself to hit difficult shots, sometimes he goes for a pure endurance training, landing shot after shot in the targets until he's drenched in sweat and his muscles burn, and after the first few weeks he settles into a rhythm: sleep, eat, work, train, meditate, repeat.

* * *

In the second month, he finds himself watched.

It's the smell that alerts Hanzo to someone else's presence. He's out at the targets, gathering his arrows, when he catches a whiff of sweet tobacco smoke. The man sits on the stairs leading to the gallery, hidden in the shadow of the laboratory, a cigar between his teeth; he tips his hat when he sees he's been noticed.

Hanzo nods at him and goes back to practicing. The self-consciousness fades quickly under the strain and the comforting rhythm of the routine, and the next time he remembers to check, the stranger is gone. Hanzo all but forgets about him until he takes a break and sits in the shadow for a moment, wiping his face with his shirt, and hears loud footsteps descending the stairs.

Everything about the man's appearance screams 'American', so Hanzo isn't surprised to hear his accent.

"Howdy. Name's McCree," he says. He's holding two bottles of water, wet with condensation, and he tosses one towards Hanzo; Hanzo catches it automatically. "Hot day."

Hanzo has his own water tucked away under the stairs, hidden from the sun, but this one is icy cold, and he holds the bottle against the back of his neck for a blissful moment before unscrewing the cap. "Thank you," he says, voice hoarse with disuse, and clears his throat. "Shimada Hanzo. Pleased to meet you."

There is no hostility or wariness in the man's gaze at the sound of the name. Hanzo gets another hat tip. "Pleasure's mine."

McCree sits on the stairs again; Hanzo leans against the pillar. They both drink in silence.

"Saw you got a nice training setup goin'." McCree inclines his head towards Hanzo's makeshift outdoor gym. "Mind if I use it when you're done?"

"Everything here belongs to Overwatch. Help yourself."

Hanzo drains the rest of the bottle and goes back to his exercises. McCree doesn't linger; Hanzo is left alone for the rest of his training.

In the evening, he goes to the gallery out of pure curiosity, and when he looks out of the window, he sees a shirtless, tall figure jump up onto the pull-up bar.

* * *

Hanzo learns about the newcomer in the following days. He's a veteran as well, and Hanzo is surprised at the difference in attitude right until he finds out about Blackwatch and McCree's gang affiliation of before. That also explains why, despite being one of the old guard, McCree doesn't seem to hang around the rest of them much.

He does, however, return to watch Hanzo practice three days later, and the day after that. The third time Hanzo spots McCree hiding in the shadows, he finishes a kata and turns towards him.

"You can do your exercises while I train," he says offhandedly. "As long as you don't walk into my field of view when I shoot."

"Much obliged." McCree nudges the brim of his hat up and smiles. It's the first time Hanzo's seen it happen. The smile is bright and boyish, and it transforms McCree's rugged, weathered face in such an unexpectedly disarming way that Hanzo catches himself smiling in return.

He turns away quickly and begins another kata. His ears feel too warm, but at least he can blame it on the Mediterranean sun.

* * *

One day, out of the blue, McCree asks him for an archery lesson. Hanzo surprises himself by agreeing to it, and even more by the fact that he doesn't mind letting McCree use his bow.

They go through the basics: rules of the range, handling the bow, stringing and de-stringing, calibrating sights. McCree's a good pupil, Hanzo doesn't have to repeat himself and hears no complaints, even after he ruthlessly criticizes McCree's posture — well, at least until he finally deems McCree ready to actually try and shoot.

"Aw, why do I get fake arrows?" McCree whines when presented with a quiver of training arrows, and casts a longing look at Hanzo's own quiver resting safely against the nearby wall. "Was hopin' to try one of your fancy, shiny ones."

"The 'shiny ones' are three-state reconfigurable hardlight, McCree. They aren't cheap or easy to come by, and they are not toys." Hanzo pushes the quiver into McCree's hands. "I had these made specifically for you. They're perfectly suitable for the purpose."

McCree blinks and smiles. It's that damnable smile again, the one that never fails to make Hanzo flustered in a way he can only blame on prolonged lack of social interaction. "You made these for _me_?"

"Torbjörn made them, not me," Hanzo grumbles and busies himself with stringing the bow, face burning.

McCree's smile stays on for at least a couple of minutes. Hanzo can't stop glancing at it instead of paying attention to his pupil's form. It's a terrible lesson and he's a terrible teacher, and it's only after McCree's third arrow misses the target completely, hits the concrete wall and shatters, that Hanzo finally gets himself together.

"See, this is why you require special arrows," he points out while McCree gathers the remaining arrows and hunts down the pieces of the broken one.

"Special arrows for a special archer," drawls McCree, grinning.

"Your aim is certainly special," says Hanzo loftily, and McCree starts laughing.

It's that soft, warm laughter that ultimately dooms him, even though he doesn't realize it yet.

* * *

McCree's a good pupil, but he's not a good archer. His instincts are wrong, his posture is wrong, he lacks patience and he wants results too quickly. Despite all that, and despite Hanzo's ruthless criticism, he comes back for more lessons with determination that is nothing short of admirable.

After McCree hits his first bullseye, he insists that they should go out and celebrate. Hanzo refuses, claims it's pure luck, orders him to repeat the feat first. Before he knows it, they're squabbling playfully; McCree punches him in the arm, Hanzo smacks him in the ass with the stringer. Something warm and glowing lodges itself under Hanzo's ribs and refuses to budge.

McCree hits two more bullseyes during the next session, and gloats so much that even Hanzo's threat of refusing to give further lessons doesn't stop him.

They do go out as promised, to a little pub not far from the Rock, and eat and drink and talk until the place closes and the staff politely requests them to leave. McCree insists on escorting Hanzo to the door of his room, as if he's a gentleman and Hanzo is his date. It's ridiculous, but Hanzo's tipsy and the evening has been enjoyable, and after a few token protests he leaves it be. There's no harm in it, and they're not done yet, anyway — they're discussing old movies they've both seen as children, and only after they've been stood in front of Hanzo's open door for a good couple of minutes Hanzo realizes he should probably stop talking.

McCree bids him goodnight and abruptly pulls him into a brief embrace before leaving.

Hanzo's left standing in front of the door, shocked speechless, heart hammering in his chest.

* * *

The next time they go out, the walk back to the base takes them two hours of meandering around Gibraltar. McCree talks about Deadlock and Blackwatch and, half amused and half deprecating, about the trouble his brash younger self got into over the years. There are more similarities in their life experiences that Hanzo would have expected, but he can only think of the differences.

"You do know about Genji, right?" he blurts out, stopping halfway up the winding road to the reserve. 

They have never talked about it. Hanzo doesn't know why, but he suddenly needs to.

McCree stops, too, hands in his pockets. He doesn't look at Hanzo; he's watching the lights of Gibraltar below. "Yeah, I do," he says slowly. "I also know all the shit I've done when I was younger. Only in my case, there are no witnesses left. No one's gonna come back from the grave to call me out. I'm the only one who remembers or gives a damn." 

Hanzo has no idea what to say to that. He watches McCree's profile against the dark sky, instead, and waits. Wildlife hums softly around them.

McCree reaches into his pocket, fishes out a cigarillo, lights up, puffs and sighs. "So what I'm tryin' to say is, I used to be awful quick to judge people," he says, resuming the walk and motioning for Hanzo to follow. "Still am, to be honest with you. But some things I just ain't qualified to judge anymore. Especially when it comes to obeying shitty orders."

Hanzo wants to argue against this unexpected and undeserved leniency, but the memory of McCree's smile is still fresh in his mind, and for the first time in ages, the righteous anger quietly slips away, leaving behind a strange, warm emptiness.

McCree stops after a dozen steps, turns toward him. "You comin'? Do I need to call you a few names to make you feel better?"

He snorts despite himself and follows, and doesn't even mind answering McCree's questions about the Shimada-gumi as they climb.

When they get to his room, Hanzo tenses up, not even knowing whether it's out of fear or hope or something else. McCree eyes him before silently reaching out. Hanzo swallows and willingly takes two steps forward, walks right into the outstretched arms.

The hug is longer than before. Hanzo gets to breathe against McCree's collarbone for a good couple of seconds before it becomes too much. He gives McCree an awkward pat on the back, extricates himself from the embrace, mumbles a goodbye without meeting McCree's eyes and retreats to the safety of his room.

* * *

Almost two months after the first lesson, Hanzo declares that he's taught McCree everything he could, and only regular practice with his own bow can bring further improvement. McCree laughs that even if he wanted one, he can't afford a proper bow; Hanzo silently decides to find out when his birthday is.

They go out to celebrate. They get drunk, just a little. They sit in the marina and watch the sunset and take their usual long walk before getting back to the base. McCree starts telling terrible jokes, each worse than the previous one; Hanzo laughs so much he has to sit down on the sidewalk and wait for the hiccups to pass.

This time, the embrace outside Hanzo's room feels different, charged. McCree doesn't let go, and Hanzo doesn't pull away. It goes on for entirely too long for Hanzo not to realize certain harsh truths; he reaches up without looking, slides his fingers into the soft hair on McCree's nape, and the unsteady breath McCree takes is enough of a reply to the unspoken question that it sends Hanzo's heart hammering.

The kiss is hungrier than he meant it to be. McCree doesn't seem to mind, he just makes a small sound, backs Hanzo slowly into his own door and kisses him until they're both out of breath.

Hanzo lets go of McCree's hair with some regret, slides fingers along his jaw instead, touches his neck. He resists the thought of divesting McCree of his shirt right here in the corridor and limits himself to just two buttons, to lean in and plant a single kiss against a tempting collarbone. There's a delicate ball chain around McCree's neck, like he's wearing old-school military dog tags, and Hanzo reaches for them out of curiosity.

McCree startles and grabs his hand, but it's too late. It's not a pair of dog tags. It's an arrowhead, blunted, smooth, polished, one of the ten Hanzo asked Torbjörn to make two months ago.

McCree lets go of Hanzo's wrist and chuckles awkwardly, avoiding his eyes. "I can explain?" he offers, sheepish.

Hanzo's heart soars. "I think you should explain inside," he says firmly, turns to punch in the door code, grabs McCree by the arm and drags him into the room.


End file.
